


A Break Yet Unmended

by the loupe (theloupe)



Series: 'Never Felt So...' Vignettes [3]
Category: Infinite Undiscovery
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theloupe/pseuds/the%20loupe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He likes it best when she rides him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Break Yet Unmended

He likes it best when she rides him.

They try, some few times, with him on top. He lasts fifteen minutes, and then his arms shake, his shoulders tremble, his body refuses to cooperate when he is so close, when he is _right there_. She looks up at him, then, those gentle brown eyes wide with fear, and he can tell that she's waiting for him to break, for the blood to come dripping out of his mouth, out of his nose. He cannot stand it.

He hides his face against her skin, then, and growls his frustration into her shoulder, but no matter how he bucks himself into her it is to no avail. The lazy slosh of pleasure in his hips holds itself in balance with the knife-stab of pain in his chest. Neither overpowers the other and he gets no relief from either, held _just so_ on the brink until he throws himself off of her with a snarl of disgust.

The first time it happens, she rubs her hands across his back, across his shoulders. She coos soothing words to him, attempting to ease the hurts to his pride. He snaps at her, seething internally with vitriol and hatred that this is what is left to him. This is what he has become.

After that, she does not try to soothe him. She leaves him to his temper, though from behind his turned back her regret is palpable. He hears every little movement she makes, the whisper-slide of her skin against the sheets announcing them to him plainly... He hears her finish herself off, with little gasps and soft, unsatisfied sobs that have nothing to do with with the audible slide of her fingers.

He needn't bother. He was finished decades ago.

When he hears her cry, though, he takes a moment out of his misery and self-loathing to feel for her. In one moment, in one misstep, the man she loved was lost to her, and she does not know that he is gone. He cannot be the handsome young lord that took her in his arms and soothed her tears away, laying numbly as he does with his back to her while she sobs her wretchedness and dissatisfaction to the night. In these moments, they are prisoners in a war of their own making, each as abject as the other, trapped in a cell of fine satin and surrounded by the ruins of their passion.

His unfocused eyes see a spray of pink on the pillow before him, and he knows he should not have her at all.

King he may be, but this is not the fairytale she dreamed of.

Ah, but when she rides him...

She is always beautiful, and she carries herself with such a coy grace because she knows it to be so; but she is never so beautiful as when she perches herself atop him, her hair freed from its ornaments to cascade down her shoulders in soft brown waves and her head tilted oh, just ever so slightly. Her body is a remarkable assemblage of all the most alluring curves he has ever seen in nature, even in his long years. There is not a single harsh line to her, not one place to rest his hand that is not tantalizingly soft. Of the women he has lain with, he will freely admit that she is the most stunning. It is as though nature did a study in feminine wiles, and here is its final product: every flirtatious glance through lowered lashes, every delicately turned limb, every knowing little smile. Every last weapon a woman may have to bring a man to his knees, she has at her disposal; and for his part, he is always ready to surrender.

The cup of her thighs around his hips draws him forward, draws him into her. She giggles, and he growls, and in that movement, in that moment, all is right and they are perfect. The world is perfect.

And then she moans and falls forward, cradling his head in her hands, smothering kisses upon his face, and they are – should it even be possible – more perfect than before. He loves to smooth his hands down her back and settle them on the curve of her rear, pulling her closer while she lavishes this attention upon him. He attempts to reciprocate, and it becomes a game between them, this trying to press attention upon the other. Neither cares whether they win or lose. The joy is in the playing.

Sometimes she reaches down and takes his hands, placing them above his head and smiling coyly at him. Of course she has no hope of holding him there with the one hand she rests upon his crossed wrists – one of his arms is nearly as big around as her two combined – but he humors her. It is worth it for her sweet smile. And when she places her other hand on his belly, the heel of it resting in the soft space beneath his ribs, he is perplexed but indulgent. He feels a bit breathless, and truthfully not just because of what she is doing to him... but then she presses down to lift herself up, and the air rushes out of his lungs. She lets herself slide down, causing a delicious slow spiral of pleasure low in his hips, and her hand eases up. His beleaguered lungs draw air into themselves again, and oh, she is a clever, clever woman.

When she finally lifts her feather-light hand from his wrists and gives her permission for him to act again, he seizes upon it immediately – or rather, he seizes upon her, grabbing her waist and pulling her hips down to meet his. She falls down onto his chest and twines her arms around his neck, all sweetness again, and spurs him on with kisses and whispers.

She holds his face in her hands, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones – she always tells him that she likes to look into his eyes in these moments. He tries to oblige her, but soon his breath is shuddering and his eyes are fluttering closed and rolling back into his head. She rests her forehead against his while he spends the last of his strength.

When it is all over and done, she pillows her head on his chest, hands resting sweetly against his sides, cheek centered amidst the whorls of his shameful, hateful glyph. His breathing deepens and slows, and he watches her little smile melt into a frown. He knows his chest is rattling. He is learning to look on it as natural, as no more than a fact of life.

She looks on it as a danger, as the thing that will take him from her. She is afraid that the blood will break free, that some night it will end not in sated cuddling but in him coughing his life out over the edge of the bed. That she will have killed him. He is afraid to tell her that she is wrong, should the day come that she is not.

He is younger now that he has been in centuries.

He has never felt so old.


End file.
